The Bear's Cub
by bluRaaven
Summary: One day a fateful letter arrives in Windhelm and with a heavy heart the Bear of Eastmarch makes a decision that, unbeknownst to him, will change the course of history. When six-year-old Ulfric learns that he must leave his home, family and friends in order to study with a bunch of old men in a monastery atop a mountain, said boy is hardly overjoyed at the 'tremendous honour'.
1. Chapter 1

**AN:** Family, fluff and angst. I recently found out that Ulfric's father's name was Hoag. I 'll just nope right past that and stick to my headcanon.

* * *

At the end of a long and busy day the steward finally announces the last petitioners; a pair of neighbours involved in a family feud over a pear tree that stands at the exact borderline between their lands and the question to whom the fallen fruits belong as well as whether it can be considered theft picking a pear from the tree. The matter is quickly resolved and the huge gates close behind the farmers with a hollow thud that reverberates through the enormous space of the main hall.

The man sitting upon his throne of stone breathes out a sigh of relief and slumps in the enormous seat. Finally, _finally_ a moment of peace. He takes off his circlet, tosses it to his housecarl who catches the piece of jewellery with a saucy grin and a salute to his sovereign, and massages his temples where the metal has left red pressure marks that alternate between aching and itching.

"We are done for today," the man announces in a booming voice to his entourage and rises to oversee the dispersal of his court. The guards move from their position next to the throne and take it up guarding the palace doors, keeping out everybody who has no business being here after the official hours.

The man in charge stretches and briskly descends the steps, while running his left hand over his blond beard in thought. He is tall, even by Nord standards and his shoulders gain additional breadth by the bearskin that adorns them. The man knows well of its effect and uses it to its full potential, as he does his commanding voice and piercing eyes. One look at this imposing figure and people who have never before seen him know instinctively that he demands respect and wields great power.

To the hold of Eastmarch he is the Jarl, to his subjects Mikillinn-Björn, the Great Bear, to his lady wife and friends Hænir and to his children –

"Papa!"

"Papa!" a second voice joins in, shrill and excited.

The Jarl turns to the left where two bundles of sheer endless energy run out of the servants' quarters. His daughters. 'They must have returned through the back door', the man thinks and watches Freydís, the eldest and his heir race in front of her younger sister, Ísalind. She holds a piece of cake in each hand and he can guess straight away what the commotion is about. When Frey hides behind her father, laughing and Ísa casts her an accusing glare, face red with anger Hænir knows that now the time has come to settle family disputes. The girls start talking at the same and it is a good thing the Gods have granted men two ears because he needs both to make out anything at all.

But two children means one is missing and the father's smile fades after the initial joy of seeing his daughters, like the sun disappearing behind a cloud. The frown it is replaced with silences the girls, their quarrel forgotten for the moment.

"Where is your brother?" Hænir asks sternly, fighting the dread suddenly rising in his chest. They were supposed to watch over him!

Ísalind's eyes go wide in shock, but Frey points towards the way they had come from and indeed, their baby brother totters out of the kitchens, his plump legs too short to keep up with his sisters. Hænir pretends not to hear Ísa's '_puh_' of relief or Frey sticking out her tongue. He too relaxes, the knot of unreasonable fear unravelling again and spreads his arms wide to welcome his only son.

The toddler no sooner catches up to the rest of the family than he is scooped up by his father who plants a tender, albeit somewhat scratchy kiss upon his brow. He must have made a detour through the kitchens to beg for muffins left over from their dinner. Successfully, because there are incriminating traces of blueberries on his chin and hands.

When he is set down the boy begins pull at Freydís' skirt until she hands him a wooden knight, a toy Hænir remembers gifting her with several years ago on her name day. Ulfric immediately sticks it in his mouth and begins to chew on the horse's head.

After some coaxing Frey manages to convince him to give up the toy and ruffles the boy's sandy blonde hair, lecturing him on how he, silly, cannot eat everything. Ísa uses her sister's distraction to filch the cake back from her and is chewing with her eyes closed in delight.

Hænir watches his children for a moment, unaware of the smile on his face.

Freydís is tall with her mother's brown hair and already shows promise in the training ring with sword, shield and bow, always striving to do her best. Once she fills out a bit she will be a true warrior, but it is her keen mind that convinces her father she will rise to greatness when one day she rules the city in his stead. Her tutors only have words of praise and Hænir knows from personal experience that they can be rather outspoken.

Ísalind, smaller and chubbier than her elder sister is a little minx. She shows no interest in politics or governance or the arts of war. Her passion is alchemy. And sweets. And her greatest hope to combine the two one day. Already her family and the entire household are weary of the innocent looking confections that appear throughout the keep and tempt her unsuspecting victims. All except for Ulfric who ended up being put to sleep, stayed awake for three days in a row and, on one occasion, his hair had turned blue. Ísa had blamed the _blue_berries.

There is not much to be said about the boy, the youngest of the trio by far, except that he likes to chew on everything he can get his hands on and sleeps with his favourite blanket made from soft rabbit fur.

And on that topic, it has become quite late and the days start early for the family. "Time for bed," the Jarl says and is met with an unhappy moan from Ísa. Managing a hold is nothing compared to handling two wilful daughters and a toddler, but Hænir makes do, striving for a balance between his two roles as Jarl and father. Thankfully Freydís is responsible beyond her years and helps out.

"Whoever gets to the room last has to read," she shouts and turns to run, but is grabbed by her younger sister who manages to win their wrestle for first place thanks to her robust stature, no small amount of determination and a general dislike of reading.

Their father lets them get a head start before he gives chase with a roar that would stagger many an enemy, but his children only squeal in delight as they are pursued through the keep and up the stairs.

Little Ulfric just barely makes it to the doorway where he stands rubbing his eyes, too tired to play further and gets snatched up first. Ísa runs ahead, light-footed as a trampling mammoth and casts panicked glances back every now and then to her athletic sister who could easily overtake her. But Freydís lets her win and pretends to be too old for such games - until her father catches up and begins to tickle her mercilessly. She squirms and kicks and finally gives in and plays along to the amusement of servants and guards alike who listen to the shouting and laughter with indulgent smiles. They are used to their lord's antics.

"You are last, papa," Ísa points out unnecessarily when the sisters reach the safe haven of their room.

The Jarl looks around with mock disbelief and puffs out his cheeks in fake outrage. "So I am," he finally concedes.

"It means you have to read," Frey lectures him with a cheeky grin. There is already a book in her arms.

"Let me just put your little brother to bed," Hænir says with a small nod at his son who has fallen asleep in spite of the recent excitement. There is one tiny fist clenched in his father's beard and Ísa helps him untangle it saving the Jarl from the danger of having all his hair ripped out.

The Bear of Eastmarch finds his lady wife asleep after he enters their bedchamber with a soft knock. It never fails to make his chest constrict painfully, the sight of his once beautiful and proud woman wasting away. She has been like this ever she gave birth, but when he kneels next to her she wakes for a brief moment.

"Look who's here," he tells his wife quietly and she blinks and takes the sleeping child from him, cradling him against her chest.

Ulfric is the joy and light of her life, Hænir knows, even as her own light is fading. They both love their daughters but Líf had always felt like she had failed her husband for not giving him a son, despite the man's best efforts to convince her otherwise. Ísa's birth had been long and complicated and the healers attending the Jarl's wife had counselled against another pregnancy. So the couple had waited until they deemed it safe again for Líf to bear another child and there was much joy when her womb quickened. Until she lost the babe. Three more miscarriages followed the first one, each worse than the last and finally the midwife said that Líf would remain barren.

Five years later a miracle happened and their only son was born. Hænir remembers that day as clearly as hardly another. The waiting, the anticipation, the constant nagging fear that something surely must go wrong, all ended when a servant comes running to announce that both mother and child are safe and sound. The babe is small, born too early and Líf is tired, but she greets her husband with a smile as bright and joyful as a clear spring morning.

"It's a boy," the proud mother announces and the Jarl thanks the Gods for granting his wife this gift she had so long prayed and hoped for.

"Did you think of a name?" Líf asks the enthralled father with a knowing tilt of her head.

Hænir shakes his head, but answeres nonetheless. "Ulfric. If I am to be a Great Bear, my son shall be a Mighty Wolf," he decides. "A child's legacy should always surpass that of his parents," the Jarl quotes one of his father's sayings.

"A good, strong name," his wife agrees.

"And what name will you give him?" Hænir had come up with Freydís and his wife with Ísalind. They had long ago agreed that if they were gifted with a third child it would bear two names.

Líf laughs and does not tell him. "You will find out soon enough, husband."

Not a long time after it becomes evident that something is wrong with the Jarl's wife. She does not recover from her pregnancy, remains weak and listless and complains of pain and dizziness. The doctors do not know what ails her, and neither do the healers or priests. Líf is dying slowly. She may only have a few years left and the task of looking after their children, the household and matters of state fall to Hænir.

The Bear of Eastmarch casts one last look at his sleeping wife and son, wishes nothing more than to join them and gets up again. He will be back shortly and until then he has a story to read. His daughters are already waiting for him and Freydís impatiently thrusts her book into her father's arms the moment he crosses the threshold. Hænir looks at the cover and chuckles. He knows why Frey chose this book; it has dragons in it and Tongues and sly villains that shall be vanquished in the end, their evil plans destroyed by the mighty heroes of old.

The Nord clears his throat and begins the tale in a deep, staged whisper that makes his eldest giggle and her sister wiggle under the covers with anticipation.

When the Jarl leaves his daughters' room he sees Thorsten's silhouette at the end of the corridor as the warrior patrols through the keep. He always sleeps better knowing that his housecarl watches over his family.

oooo

Ulfric is six years old when the letter arrives.

"What troubles you, my love?," Líf asks her husband during one of her clear moments that are becoming rare as the medication she is taking robs her of most consciousness.

"Our son is being summoned to High Hrothgar," the Jarl replies with a deep frown gracing his noble brow.

"It is a great honour," his wife says and only the tightness around her eyes shows the sadness that lingers behind them. "We always knew he was... different."

"He is too young," Hænir protests and notices her slump in relief.

oooo

A summons like this cannot be ignored, however. That evening the Bear of Eastmarch walks the battlements of the Palace of Kings and looks over his city in thought. His best friend and housecarl is, as usually, at his side.

"I would have your son as húskarl to my boy," the Jarl breaks the silence between them with an unexpected pronouncement.

Thorsten inclines his head in immediate agreement although he is visibly surprised. "Galmar or Rolff?" the warrior asks, recovering his composure quickly.

Though his professional facade Hænir can see the man's pride shine through at having a second son chosen as housecarl for his Jarl's family. "Galmar," he decides. Thorsten's middle child takes after his father in all aspects. He is already renowned amongst the guards for killing his first ice wraith at the age of only fifteen and the men all think that one day he will be an outstanding warrior, and maybe even best his father in combat. "Let's see how the boys get along," the Bear suggests.

"He's quite a bit older than Ulfric," the housecarl points out with slight unease. He knows Galmar will be ecstatic at the announcement and of course the boys already know each other, though they have not had the chance to form any bonds of friendship yet.

"Ten years," Hænir agrees. "It will matter less as they grow up."

"It is an honour." Thorsten turns to his friend who pretends not to notice his somewhat glassy eyes and the men embrace, doing away with all formality.

The Jarl of Windhelm shakes his head. "I would have nobody else," he tells his friend and slings an arm around the other Nord's shoulders as they proceed on their route. "Your Hamvir is already sworn to Frey and I have promised the position of housecarl to Ísa to Erna."

"A good choice." Thorsten nods his head in approval of the choice. "She comes from an old, noble family. I hear they have another child."

"A son, Calder. He's just a babe." Hænir leads them to a stairwell and point towards the courtyard. "Shall we go tell them?"

oooo

Galmar is, as always, on the training grounds behind the palace and he comes running when his father calls for him, saluting the Bear. Together they walk out of the city and Jarl and housecarl share chuckles over how hard Thorsten's son is trying not to show any curiosity what their meeting is about. It is not every-day that one gets an invitation to walk with the Jarl, after all.

They find Ulfric racing his pony across the paddock while his riding instructor shouts orders in a voice that carries over the big field. Hænir would never admit to the fact that the very sight makes his heart stop. Despite its small size that pony easily weights a full nine hundred pounds and should it slip or the boy fall...

He quickly turns away before such dark images set root in his mind and rests a hand on Galmar's shoulder. "How goes your training?"

"Very well, Jarl," the youth replies with a brash grin. He has every reason to brag, but today his eyes wander to the rider instead.

"You know my son, Ulfric," Hænir says, stalling, only to watch the warrior squirm from the suspense. "Your father and I are of the opinion that you will make him a fine housecarl. What do you say?"

Galmar does not say anything; he is so overcome with emotion. Only when his father cuffs him on the head he manages to stammer many a 'thank you'.

"The title will be a formality until you complete your training," the Jarl reminds him, but smiles at his obvious joy. The Gods willing, Ulfric would never be in need of a housecarl.

Their little gathering has drawn the young rider's attention, who reins in his pony next to Hænir and waves at Thorsten and his son, too out of breath to greet them properly.

Galmar quickly kneels and, swearing his undying loyalty, presents his battleaxe to Ulfric who looks towards his father in confusion and discomfort, not sure what to do now. When his pony takes advantage of its rider's inattentiveness and begins to eat Galmar's hair, mistaking the dark blond tresses for hay both grownups guffaw at the young warrior's long face until they are out of breath and tears leave streaks across their red faces.

oooo

That evening there is a small feast and afterwards the Jarl sends Thorsten home to spend some time with his son and family. He deserves it more than anybody and yet his duties keep him away from his own home too often.

Hænir uses the gathering to announce the news of the Greybeards' summons and with a heavy heart tells his son of his imminent trip to the Throat of the World.

Ulfric does not take the news well, but he pretends at being brave and despite the tremendous honour it is, his father wishes to never have received that damned letter.

"Why are they called the 'Greybeards'?" the boy pipes up hoarsely, lower lip trembling from restraint.

Ísalind leans over to her younger brother and whispers in his ear, "Because when you go there you will become an old man and grow a long, grey beard."

They all hear little Ulfric bawl his eyes out upstairs after he has fled from the dining table.

oooo

Freydís finds her brother a while later, hiding under his bed. "What are you doing there?" she asks, pretending not to know.

"I don't want to go," Ulfric mumbles and she can see him wipe at his face. "I don't want to be old and a Greybeard and– " The rest of the sentence is lost in a noisy sniff.

"Your evil sister was just being mean," Frey tells the boy and manages to get hold of a bare foot and to drag him out from under the bed. There are dust bunnies sticking to his clothes and hair. "Did you know that Hakon One-Eye was a Tongue?" Frey asks and manages to get her brother to sit down in front of the fireplace with her.

She feels Ulfric shake his head when she rests her chin on top of his head. "He was. And so were Derek the Tall and Hoag Merkiller and Jurgen Windcaller and of course Hjalti Early-Beard. Whom we know today as– " Frey lets him finish the sentence.

"Talos," Ufric replies without thinking. He is just as eager for tales of heroes and their mighty deeds as she had once been.

"Don't you want to go to High Hrothgar and find out how Talos lived?" Frey enquires and lets longing seep into her voice. Listening to her father make tales come alive with his voice and a few gestures made her very good at telling them herself. Now she makes the monastery sound like an exciting place and the trip like an adventure. "Maybe we'll even find something of his."

At her words Ulfric squirms around in her grip until he can look at her. "Are you coming too?" the boy asks, his voice and green eyes full of hope.

"Yes," Freydís says in a conspiratorial whisper. "But it's a secret; you must _not_ tell your sister."

oooo

The Jarl has his children sent for into the throne room a few days later and watches them line up, eldest to youngest. He has made up his mind and it is time to tell his family. "I have decided," the Bear of Eastmarch proclaims, letting his gaze wander over his daughters and son. He is sitting on the throne today. This is official business, after all. "To send _all of you_ to High Hrothgar."

"Oh, _papa_!" Ísalind calls out in dismay, the horror of having to drag her plump self up seven thousand stairs etched into her face.

"This is my final decision," her father declares and there is no arguing with his tone.

"You will look funny with a beard, Ísa," Freydís remarks snidely and Ulfric dissolves into peals of laughter that infects the rest of the family in no time.


	2. Chapter 2

Dear Guest, thank you very much for your kind review. I hope you will enjoy the second part as well.

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Since his birth they have known that the boy is different. He is too quiet for a babe, barely cries when he is hungry or distressed. At first they believe it is because of his early birth, because he is weaker and smaller than his sisters have been. Later, the parents begin to worry and ask for advice from a physician. 'Deaf', one medic says. 'Mute', the other. But no, the boy is neither. He reacts to his surroundings just fine and begins to babble like any other child, except that he is months late.

Hænir's heart turns over the first time his son calls him 'papa', smiling up at him with those bright green eyes that he inherited from his mother. He no longer worries.

A long time later, after an exhausting day full of political debate the Jarl returns to his quarter to hear a sound he has not known before; his son's laughter. The door to his childrens' room is slightly ajar and he tiptoes closer and peeks inside. Ísalind is making funny faces, cheeks puffed out and eyes crossed and her brother is on his back, rolling with laughter, feet in his hands. Frey keeps telling them to shut up because she can't concentrate and tosses pillows at them both and they keep sailing back to her great annoyance. He retreats with a smile of his own.

At six years of age Ulfric still barely speaks. Not in Nord, not in the Trader's Tongue. He knows the languages, under his tutor he has begun to read and write, frustrating his teacher because he won't _read out loud_. But despite the frequent encouragement he will not speak until it is absolutely necessary and when he does it is usually in monosyllables of 'já', 'neinn' and 'papa', usually accompanied by a long face he must have copied from Ísa. The Bear does not press his son.

All his children had weird quirks at some time. Frey only ate her food when it was divided by colour. Ísa needed to have the same song sung to her three times in a row for over two years or she would not go to sleep. It will pass, Hænir knows.

'Just shy', is what the nurse says about her young charge. Maybe he is.

When he screams though half the castle comes running, the Jarl and his housecarl and the soldiers with their weapons drawn because there is something so very raw and jarring about that sound.

The fateful letter arrives five months later.

oooo

The Jarl of Windhelm leaves his steward in charge of the city for the time he will be gone. He has words he needs to speak to the Greybeards and arrangements to make. He and Thorsten ride next to each other while the children form a gaggle behind them. The housecarl has taken his son with him so he and Ulfric can get to know each other better.

Galmar does not know how to behave around his little lord at first and he tries to be solemn and professional because his father is. He wants to act all grownup and forgets to when Ulfric and his sisters draw him into their games and in the evening he falls asleep first from sheer exhaustion. They become inseparable for the rest of the journey.

oooo

High Hrothgar is not a welcoming sight, black and square and Ísa and Ulfric hide behind their father, each on one side and conscious that they will be left here, in this strange cold place.

The doors to the monastery open before anybody can knock and a tall slender figure in billowing robes steps out. The Greybeard's garb is as drab as his home; he blends in well with the background. After a moment of silence, he speaks up in a soft, quiet voice that still somehow manages to drown out everything else, even the howling of the wind. "We were expecting only the boy."

"I wish for all my children to be taught in the old ways," Hænir states and his children marvel at their father's bravery to face down the intimidating figure with the pale eyes. Little do they know that it is his right as a Jarl, although usually only the eldest child is sent away to study at the monastery.

"Very well," the Greybeard concedes after a moment of thought. He spreads his arms then and addresses them all. "I am master Arngeir and I welcome you to High Hrothgar."

They introduce themselves, one after the other, the way they have been taught at court. And then, far too soon it is time for farewells and Ulfric is torn between excitement and apprehension because his father looks at him with such pride in his eyes and although he sees no trace of it he can feel the man's sadness.

"Be good, you hear?" the Bear says after one last goodbye-hug. "Do what your elder sister tells you." He can see Ísa's face light up from the corner of his eyes and nearly groans. "I mean Frey," he clarifies and her face falls again.

The children are ushered inside and while Thorsten and Galmar take their leave as well, Hænir corners the Greybeard.

"I am also leaving one of my household staff," he decides and they argue until the Jarl asks the other Nord "Do you have children, master Arngeir?" When his only answer is a tired shake of a greying head, he presses his point. "With all due respect then you would do well to take the advice of someone who has _three_." Old men who never raised a child or worked with one for the matter are no company for a six-year-old boy. The Jarl's mind already turns to how to ensure that this arrangement will work out in the future.

oooo

Arngeir soon finds himself incredibly grateful for the Jarl's foresight when two of the three children begin to run wild. They have more energy than he can keep up with and though they are quiet and intimidated in the first weeks, it quickly wears off. The Jarl's eldest daughter keeps them in line as does the maid and he grudgingly accepts that he would never have coped on his own. Children are strange, they do not see the world as he does and at times he comes close to despairing.

For Ulfric living with the old men soon loses its novelty. They are just old men, after all. They drink tea from snowberries, harrumph often and Arngeir keeps talking to himself. Ulfric likes master Einarth and master Wulfgar best; the former always is serene and demonstrates his Shout while the latter smiles often and shows them his collection of oddities he has picked up on the mountain and plays tafl with them. Master Borri scares him and he hides whenever he sees the Greybeard. Master Arngeir always seems to radiate disapproval.

Freydís finds the Greybeard slumped over and asleep in the corridor one day and Ulfric next to him, studying a wax tablet with runes, blond brows furrowed in concentration. There is a curious mixture of moss, flowers and twigs woven in the old man's beard and his mouth has fallen open; he snores.

"Did you do this to master Arngeir, Ulfric?," she asks sternly trying to imitate their father when he is displeased.

"Nid," her brother replies without a care and without looking up. "Ísa drey daar."

For somebody who speaks so seldom he has picked up the Old Tongue remarkably quickly. They have lessons in Dovahzul, the ancient language of dragons and Ulfric's eyes go as wide and round as plates when he learns of that fact, history and religion. Sometimes they sit together and meditate, but Ísa begins to yawn after five minutes, her gaze vacant and Ulfric, though he tries hard, fidgets ceaselessly trying to find a comfortable position on the stone floor. Master Arngeir shakes his head.

They all fly out of the monastery when, as promised, their father comes to pick them up again and for once not even Ulfric can keep his mouth shut, chattering away as eagerly as his sisters. Hænir has a lengthy talk with the Greybeard about how they will proceed about the boy's training and Arngeir would rather that the boy has no distractions. He coughs and turns red when the Bear asks him what he had been doing at _seven _and does not give the Jarl a straight answer.

They finally agree that it is best if the boy returns to resume his studies after he spends some time with his family and friends and gets rid of all his excess energy. The family returns to Windhelm and their life falls back into its old rhythm, but eventually Ulfric has to return to High Hrothgar. The prospect is much less daunting this time. He still has to find something of Talos' in the monastery.

Freydís asks her father to be allowed to return for another half-year and he gives in, though he sends her fighting instructor and main tutor with her. Arngeir is not happy, but he sees the reason that the Jarl's firstborn child has other responsibilities as well. It is not her the Greybeards are interested in, after all, though she too shows promise and is an apt pupil. But as the Jarl's heir her destiny lies in another direction and they focus their attentions on the boy.

For the next four years Ulfric will travel between High Hrothgar and Windhelm, spending half a year in each place. Later, his visits of home will become shorter and sparser until eventually he will only descend to Ivarstead to meet with Galmar or sometimes one of his sisters. But that is yet to come.

He masters his first shout at the age of eight and Arngeir once again shakes his head, for a different reason this time.

His mother's condition worsens drastically a few years later and he gets recalled home for what unbeknownst to him will be their last time together. Ulfric finds Líf in the small garden his father had ordered built for his bride when she first came to the city of snow and stone. It is blossoming now, in the middle of summer and he has an idea as they sit together. Birds make a merry ruckus in the shrubbery around them and he manages to sneak up on them.

'KAAN', he whispers as quietly as possible, so that hopefully master Arngeir won't hear.

"Jori, what are you doing?," his mother asks, curious and a bit worried.

She exhales in surprise and delight as he picks up the docile birds one by one and places them in her lap and one in her hand. Líf runs one delicate finger along the birds' bright plumage and they begin to sing again.

There are tears in her eyes and Ulfric does not understand what he did wrong. "Why are you crying, móði?"

oooo

Hænir sends his son back with tutors and a gift of a sword he had made extra for the boy, insisting that Ulfric is a Jarl's son and as such he has much to learn outside of the Way of the Voice. He wants his son to spend as much time as possible with other children, and if that cannot be done then at least he will have teachers, of politics and fighting.

When Arngeir complains that everything else is taking too much time out of the boy's training Einarth, the weakest of the Greybeards, has something to say on the topic. "How old were you when you came to High Hrothgar?," he asks then and when the other Greybeard does not answer "Humour me."

"Six-and-ten," Arngeir replies after a brief pause.

"And how long did it take for you to learn your first Shout?"

"I mastered 'Wuld' after two years." He had been so proud then.

"He is two-and ten and he already knows three Shouts," Einarth whispers. "We both know the boy either has Kynareth's blessing or a talent unlike any other. He's certainly better than I am and quite possibly better than you are, too. Let him. Lest you will have nothing more to teach him in a few years' time."

Ulfric soaks knowledge up like a sponge does water. The longer the boy stays though the more his concentration begins to waver and Arngeir, much wiser with the experience, sees that there is only so much the child can do, that though it may not seem so he already studies as hard as he can.

He suffers a heavy setback when one day when unexpectedly Thorsten and Galmar pick the boy up without any forewarning about their arrival.

Líf has died.

Ulfric is four-and ten.

oooo

When Ulfric returns he is listless, distraught and refuses to speak once more, something he had grown out of over the years. Arngeir eventually loses patience and makes the mistake of speaking of his mother as a distraction and finds himself on the receiving end of his pupil's wrath, stunned by the sudden flare of his temper that has never shown itself before.

Anger quickly turns to mortification and Ulfric runs away, as fast and far as he can, past the forbidden gates and on, into the night. He stops when he can run no more and realizes that he is lost, hopelessly lost. Ulfric tries to follow his footsteps back but they have filled out with snow he did not even notice was falling. The world around him is utterly silent and he begins to shiver with cold and with something else.

When the icewraith attacks he shouts at it "FUS RO," and stabs at it with his sword, the one piece of home that he always carries with him. Not the graceful, calculated thrusts his weapon master has been teaching him, but wild and frenzied swings. He suffers burns at his hands and arms, and when the creature's fragile body crumbles under the force of his blows and Voice he is too scared to think that he beat even Galmar's record. According to an ancient custom he is now a man. He does not feel like one.

His shout does not go unnoticed though and he is found, and thankfully there is a cave nearby where he can spend the freezing night, but the fire of a Shout keeps him warm.

When he returns Arngeir is so relieved he outright forgets to scold him.

Ulfric, on the other hand, is ecstatic. He has a secret. One that he does not share with the Greybeards and on many a following night Ulfric climbs out of bed, dresses as warmly as possible and steals out of the monastery.

oooo

He has to stop for a while when another Jarl's son arrives two years later. Ulfric watches them from one of the few windows, sees the blond boy stand before his severe looking father at attention and call him 'sir'. He misses his own family and the friend he cannot visit now.

The two do not get along well at all. Balgruuf is interested in food and looking nice and he invades his private space. Ulfric's head is full of lore and the Way of the Voice and he does not know how to interact with somebody his own age; appears aloof and cool. Eventually, the other boy leaves again without mastering a single Shout.

oooo

Ulfric is no longer a boy when the letters from his father take on a dark note and speak of a war to come, but he turns his restless mind back towards his studies. Only when he learns that the war has truly begun and that his sisters have enlisted in the Imperial Legion does he understand that he cannot stay. Frey will be there, right on the front as the leader of a small band of soldiers and Ísa with the healers in the reinforcements. It has been three years since he last saw them.

The Jarl's son is young and feels compelled to do _something_. The great deeds of heroes of old fill his head and he wants to stand out as well, to make a difference in this world before it is too late and all the chance at glory has been snatched away by somebody else.

Before he becomes like those around him.

"What about the Way of the Voice?," Arngeir asks, furious and powerless in his anger. He cannot, will not use the Voice but his self-control is frail and his Thu'um underlies everything he says.

"Did not Kyne send us the gift of the Voice so we could defeat the dragons who would otherwise enslave us?" Ulfric enquires, drawing upon his knowledge of the lore, presenting his point as reasonably as he can. "How are the elves any different?"

"It is not the same thing!" Arngeir comes as close to shouting as the lad had ever seen him and beneath his feet, High Hrothgar trembles.

"It is _exactly_ the same thing! I will not sit by idly and watch the world beneath me burn and bleed while I sing praise of peace to Kynareth and the heavens!"

The true power of Ulfric 's voice does not lie in destruction, or fear, but persuasion. Arngeir totters on the edge, wars with himself; compassion and the memory of a life he left behind so long ago he sometimes no longer remembers he has ever had it and almost listens. But then the old man turns away and Ulfric knows that he has lost him and he gives up on the argument.

He steals away one last time and when he returns that very night he packs, leaving behind most of his belongings. He cannot take everything with him and maybe - No, he cannot, will not return. He weights it in his heart, one thing against the other. Becoming a Greybeard or fighting for Skyrim. The latter wins. He will always belong to her and one thing Arngeir does not realize is that High Hrothgar is a part of this world as well.

It is not an easy decision. He would be happy to stay save that apparently it requires turning a blind eye to the world below. It's easier to be short-sighted when one's eyes are clouded with old age, but the vigour of youth burns in Ulfric as does his and love for the country that is his home.

He is eager for battle, ready to prove himself.

"Sky guard you," Einarth whispers and master Wulfgar pats his arm in farewell. Of Arngeir there is no sign.

"Ven aak hi," Ulfric replies formally and he looks back only once on his way down. It is almost enough to make him reconsider. He sets his shoulders instead and ploughs on. He wants to find out what the world has in store for him.

He knows many things that others don't, but he is innocent in other ways, has never known injustice or cynicism thanks to his sheltered upbringing. Ulfric knows a bit of fighting and he believes it is enough. He has never kissed a girl or a boy and does not know of the comfort a lover's touch has to offer. He wants it all. He wants to live.

Ulfric will always remember the joy in his father's face turn brittle and crumble, will see the way Hænir's eyes close as if in prayer when he learns that his son has left the safety of the Throat of the World to join the Legion. He clings to his son and for a moment Ulfric's conviction wavers. There is not a moment in his memory when his father wasn't there for him. Strong, reliable, _safe_. He feels very small all of a sudden.

The kiss Hænir plants upon the top of his head feels branded into his skin, but when the time comes he sets out in high spirits, his horse dancing under its rider and together with Galmar they wave at the two distant figures upon the battlements for one last time. Then their eyes turn towards adventure and glory and a faraway country, their talk to tales and songs of bravery and heroic deeds they already see themselves accomplishing.

oooo

Four years later the Imperial City falls and Paarthurnax raises his head when he hears the faintest of echoes of a storm brewing, of thunder. _Strundaam_.

Further away, beyond the ears of mortals or dov a god laughs. One of his priests bears witnesses and goes mad with joy and terror.

Ulfric is no longer a boy, or a bright-eyed, eager lad. At two-and-twenty years of age he has the cares of one who has lived too long. He is weary and disillusioned, has watched his friends die and has known betrayal and pain such that he has prayed for death many times. For his service in the Legion all he has to show is a black mark in the Imperial records, a broken body and a haunted gaze; and a hatred that he nurses from a burning flame into a white-hot furnace. It keeps him going through the final battle.

His Thu'um washes over their enemy, stronger than it has ever been and they cannot withstand and, no longer capable of feeling pity or revulsion and used to the horror around him, he feels a fierce, savage satisfaction as he watches them die.

And the warriors call him _Stormcloak_ and cheer.

* * *

**AN**: Eek! I wanted this to be happy. Oh, well. Thank you all for reading and I hope you enjoyed reading the story.

This was part two of the 'Price of Freedom' series. Ulfric's story now continues with part three: 'Coming Home'.


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